Make Believe
by Urania Black
Summary: There are times when he can go hours without saying a word and yet, she still knows exactly what he’s thinking.


**Title: **Make-Believe****

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the idea and the words.

**Summary:** There are times when he can go hours without saying a word. And yet, she still knows exactly what he's thinking. It's something you have to experience to truly understand. If you have, no explanation is necessary. If you haven't, no explanation is possible.

**Notes:** Yeah the Unbound Challenge fit this story perfectly and I figured out a way to sort of give a little more information so here it is. Also I was watching _Too Tough To Die_ last night and it gave me a few extra ideas. Things that are _italicized_ are what Sara is writing in her journal.

**Word Count:** 626

Sara read her journal, ignoring the pouting figure seated opposite of her.   
Sometimes it wasn't difficult to ignore him. Like now when she was absorbed in her journal, but her thoughts of him would soon return to her if she concentrated too hard on ignoring him.

He watched her as she would read a passage and then jot down whatever came to her mind. He didn't know it, but in a way he had suggested this to her. He had told her to find an outlet. She'd tried everything she could think of photography, romance novels, jogging, but nothing took her mind off something quite like writing did. And the great thing about her journal was it didn't have to make sense. This, in her opinion, was perfect because nothing in her life seemed to make sense. Especially him.

_He's not what you want_; she wrote down; her mind returning to the thought of him.

_You look at him, bustling from people to people, quietly convincing yourself of that. He's not what you want._

As the thoughts came she wrote. Not truly realizing that she was debating with herself. It was almost like an instinct. The thoughts came, the hand wrote. There was no need to even think.

_You're too young, too pretty, too believable, too corruptible, too tawdry, too innocent. He's too old, too far, not mod enough, not as hip as you'd like. Even though you don't admit that, not even to yourself._

He grew even more curious about her peculiar writing habit as tears began to cloud her eyes. He didn't think she even realized they were there. She just continued. The only sound in the room her pen scratching against the soft pages of the black velvet journal he had bought her for Christmas when he had discovered her new hobby.

_You know that when he does listen to you, he listens mostly to the facts flowing from your mouth, attentive, dutiful. But you're not smart. He is. Get it right._

_When you go over to visit for a while, it's for his record collection and the bottle of Amaretto he always keeps behind the knife rack. You don't think of him when you touch them, the records or the bottles, and whenever you encounter them in other people's houses, you certainly aren't' reminded of him. Get over yourself._

_He doesn't ask you to go with him places, visible places, important places and events—he just assumes you'll be there with him. You don't feel strangely comforted by being taken for granted, because it's not something you want, it's not something he really wants to give, you know this. When you're both standing at a crime scene, looking at the horror stricken faces, and he turns his hand around under your own so you're palm to palm, and twines his fingers with yours, it's because he's frustrated and he needs something to distract him. You are not the foremost thing on his mind. His thumb does not caress your skin so softly. Get it?_

_He doesn't have to humor you. His arms around your waist, under your jacket, holding you tight, don't feel like they belong there. He doesn't say he loves you, or maybe he does, but he doesn't mean it, and his eyes don't lie, except that they do, and he doesn't ask to go home, it's not 'home' to him anyway, your little house, your little bed… your whole being is not aching for him, and he doesn't know exactly what to do to make you breath like that._

_Because that would make it real. And where would you be then?_

"In love," she whispered, admitting it quietly to herself.

That was easier than Sara thought it would be.


End file.
